


Introductions

by IamBuckVu, paladin_cleric_mage



Series: As I Live And Breathe [1]
Category: The OA (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Trans, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transgender, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 14:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10466688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamBuckVu/pseuds/IamBuckVu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/paladin_cleric_mage/pseuds/paladin_cleric_mage





	1. Finding Each Other

FRENCH:

Hey, it’s been a while. A lot’s happened. I honestly don’t know where to start, but I’ve missed you. I’ve missed being part of a group that wanted me even when I didn’t want them. Led by a girl who knew too much about the stars.

Forgive me?

BUCK:

｡◕‿◕｡ Hey French. I’ve missed you, too.

And I’m not gonna forgive you. You don’t have to worry about stuff like that with me.

Besides, you said it: a lot’s happened.

FRENCH:

I wish I had the words to tell you what its been like for us. Some of it’s good, like Steve and Angie getting together. Some of it is awful. I don’t even want to tell you, but what kind of friend would I be? OA left to find Homer. I’m not sure if you knew, seeing as you practically disappeared these past two weeks. I’m sure it’ll hurt to know that she’s gone, but it won’t be for long. She’ll be back with him. Imagine, we’ll finally get to meet Homer! I mean, I hope we do. I hope he’s real. Buck, if he isn’t and she comes back alone or hurt, I don’t know what I’ll do. If none of it was real, then… No, I can’t think about it. There’s one more big thing that’s changed. It’s the reason that Homer is free. Dr. Hap is at large. And he might be hunting us. I can only imagine how this will make you feel. I’m sorry. But it’ll all be okay. I promise.

BUCK:

That’s a lot. I’m sad that OA just left like that. She needs our support, even if she doesn’t realize it. I just hope she’s safe.

[ He falls silent for a moment, thinking, processing. Eyes cast down. Lips pursed. A small sigh, then he looks back up at French, reading his facial features, noting his body language. ]

No matter what else is going on, we are real. You and me. And you don’t have to go through this alone. I mean…I know you don’t need help or anything. But you’ve got me.

[ He laughs. ] Maybe not how Steve has Angie ^_^ But I’m still…yknow…

Anyways…

Are you joking about Dr. Hap ? There’s no way he’s here. That’s insane.

FRENCH:

(He thinks, of course he has to go through this alone. There’s no way the others understand where he’s coming from. His life isn’t like theirs. But Buck is empathetic enough, emotionally mature enough to get him. French is grateful.)

Thanks. Really, I appreciate it. It’s good to have you back to talk to.

And no, I’m not joking. I would never lie about that. I thought maybe he would come after us, but he seems to be torturing someone else’s sleep. I don’t think we have to worry.

BUCK:

(Buck is visibly worried.)

If a man who locks people up is here looking for victims, we *should* be worried, no matter who he’s after. If we don’t care, then we’re not who we say we are.

(The Angel Hunter. Dr. Hunter Aloysius Percy. The mere thought of the devil made Buck’s stomach turn to lead, made him want to crawl into a hole- of his own choosing- and hide until it was safe. But if there were people in danger? No. He felt like collapsing, but he steeled himself with resolve, trying to be brave. His jaw was clenched. He could keep this fear in check. He could reign it in.)

(But he didn’t realize his hands were shaking a bit.)

FRENCH:

(It’s been a while since they were together like this. And it’s brief, almost over. French knows he needs to go home now, and will see Buck again at school. Yet still he has trouble leaving.)

(Buck’s hands are shaking. Of course he notices this. It’s hard, but he wills himself not to reach out and touch. They’ve never touched. Only sat close together, talked at soft volumes about life and death. He can’t let people in that way, he never has.)

(So he focuses on the topic of conversation, and Buck’s warm eyes, and ignores the way he feels.)

We do care. I care. And there is a chance he could be dangerous to us, but I won’t allow it. Not here, with you. Or the others. We’ll stay safe.

(He looks at the time on his phone.)

I have to go, Buck. Please, text me tomorrow? It’ll give me something to look forward to.

(French manages a smile before turning to disappear.)


	2. Buck's Thoughts

It was a relief to touch base with French, to see his face, to hear his voice. But the news was overwhelming.

How did Buck’s dad think this was healthy? To force him to hole up at home? He would always have to be exposed to the world again eventually, and it was so much more of a shock to have everything hit him in the face all at once.

Dad. The Amazing Mr. Vu. Sometimes Buck felt like calling his dad by his first name just to try and make him feel, just for a moment, the way he made him feel. But no. As soon as the thought entered his head, he knew he could never cross that line. He could never disrespect him in that way. What kind of a person would that make him?

There was no outlet, and not enough information, so all Buck could do was worry and wonder and lay in bed in the dark while wave after wave of feeling crashed over him.

Finally, he sat up. Took a tin out of his desk. Thankful he still had a few pills left, he popped one into his mouth and swallowed it dry. Sitting on the edge of his mattress, bare feet on the cold floor, he opened up his phone, flipped through bright images of fun characters and beautiful pop art. Trying to focus on one small happy space while his mind grew numb and all his worried dropped into the shadows and out of view.

When he slipped under his covers, he felt as close to feeling nothing at all that he could hope for. And he slept.


	3. A Day In Buck's Life

Today had been one of those days that started like standing in mud. Buck trudged forward through each moment, slushing through each school period, willing himself to do his best, to be his best like climbing up an overgrown and slippery hill.

But he kept going. Today he got to see his vocal coach, and those were moments he lived for.

As long as he kept his grades up, his parents said they would let him study music. It was a fair deal, and Buck knew it, but as his passion for his music grew more and more intense, he wanted to devote more of himself to it and that was seeming increasingly impossible.

He was only a sophomore, and his dad was already pouring over college applications with him, asking him if he preferred pre-med or pre-law or business.

All Buck wanted to do was sing. But whenever the topic of music came up, his dad was nothing but dismissive. It was Buck’s “hobby”…something he got to do because he was still young…something that held no place in the adult world.

He went through with what was expected of him. He did well in school. He tried to care just enough about the American Civil War and the Pythagorean Theorem to appease his sense of duty to his family. But with all the time it took to be a good son and a good student, Buck didn’t have much left to be good to himself.

Not most days, anyways.

But today he had a voice lesson. He got to pretend, for one pure hour, like his passion for music was the only thing in the world. And that calmed his overactive mind better than any drug.

Maybe that’s why he had been so open with French when they texted. It was odd, letting himself just chat so openly. Maybe it was easier because he was texting instead of talking. 

There was something so effortless about pouring his heart out into tiny words. It felt like when he wrote his poems. Natural. Like an extension of his heart.

Laying in bed, drifting off to sleep, Buck opened up his chat history and re-read their conversation a couple times, lingering over these words:

“The fact that you are yourself is why I like you. You’re the only one I can trust.”

Buck wasn’t really sure what to do with that, emotionally. On the one hand, it was such an intimate and unexpected thing for French to say, but on the other hand, it was so sad how isolated French felt. Buck felt an ache inside him, an ache to help heal his hurt. He wanted French to not have to feel so alone. But Buck was so small, just one person. He wasn’t sure he could shoulder the responsibility of being the only one French could trust.

Buck let his phone go dark, cocooned up into his blankets and let his mind wander. French. So strong, but so weak. His eyes. His glasses. The way he looks at the world. His eyes. Looking at me. Dark. Chocolate. Gorgeous. Deep. Like a dream.


	4. A Day In French's Life

French blows a bump in the bathroom after getting his brothers on the bus.

...

He’s all shook up at practice, out of blow and waiting for a reply from his dealer. The splitting headaches are a drawback when he’s crashing. As long as the ends justify the means he tells himself it doesn’t hurt.

Forget the fact that he doesn’t remember who he was before this. That he doesn’t know himself at all.

...

After practice he drops off one of his teammates in Crestwood. The boy’s parents can afford everything; for a split second French wishes he had that life. He could spend more time being a kid, less time raising some.

That’s not his reality, though, so he quickly shakes it out of his head as his teammate hands him a small baggy with prescription pills. Enough to cover French for giving him rides all the time. They thank each other and the boy disappears.

From there French heads to the parking lot of a plaza in the part of town no one shops at anymore. He meets a college dealer behind the Dunkin Donuts. Now that Steve doesn’t sell at the house anymore he has to go through hideous lengths to get what he needs.

And he needs it, he does. But as he passes the kid hard earned money meant for bills he thinks he shouldn’t be here. He should be at work. Just, somewhere else.

He shouldn’t be here.

...

[Text to: Buck]  
Work is slow.  
[…]  
How are you?

[Text to: French]  
Hey. Just came up for air! I leave my phone off when I’m doing homework. Too distracting. But I just finished!  
[…]  
You still at work?

[Text to: 


	5. The Next Day

French wakes up before his six o'clock alarm to the sound of someone breathing. In his half-lucid state he thinks it might be Adrien. After their father left the little boy would frequently join French in the middle of the night after he’d had a nightmare.

As he rolls over the phone unsticks from his face and he realizes with a shock that Buck is still on the other line. Breathing. Soft, slow, honest. How did this happen? Did they fall sleep on each other? Did French fall asleep first, leaving himself vulnerable?

Regardless, he can’t remember a time when sleep came so easy, lasted so long or provided him a respite of colorful, kind dreams.

For a moment he considers waking Buck up to tell him this. How raspy would his usually silky voice sound upon waking? What would his first words be? The idea of it sweetens French into a state of complete wakefulness.

Then he thinks, to wake Buck up would be the equivalent of felling an angel. Oiling the wings of a butterfly. He cannot disturb such a pure, innocent thing.

Sitting in bed, he looks down at the phone in his hand. He whispers sadly that he’s sorry and hangs up.

...

Buck awoke to the sound of his mom knocking on his door. Confused, he rolled over and stretched. It was…really bright out. Realization dawned on him and he scrambled up, panicked, checking his phone for the time.

Shit. He’d slept in.

"I’m up. I’m up."

He started gathering together things he needed for school. The bus would be arriving soon. He’d had to sprint for it. Then he realized: he wouldn’t have time for both food and getting dressed. Frozen by dread, he imagined walking around school an entire day, exposed, and decided: fuck it. The food wasn’t worth it.

He squeezed into his binder, put on the first clothes he could find- yesterday’s jeans, yesterday’s shirts- the barreled out the door for the bus stop, arriving in the nick of time.

Why hadn’t he set his alarm last night?

It wasn’t until he was sitting on the bus, cheek pressed against the cold window, that he remembered: he fell asleep on the phone with French. His adrenaline rush melted into a sense of euphoria. He sighed, thinking of a boy who was worth all the crazy mornings in the world.

...

French's brain buzzes faster than letters and numbers can dribble out of his pen. Chest cracked open, open, mind alight with the fire of knockoff amphetamines. He thinks of nothing, no one, other than the task at hand.

This is what it feels like to breathe.

...

Sitting in homeroom, waiting for the day to begin, Buck is already hungry. It’s not the first time he’s had to deal with skipping breakfast. He knows he can manage. But he’s kicking himself for not stashing some crackers in his locker after the last few times. When he rummages around for his wallet and realizes he forgot it at home, he’s straight up pissed. How could he be so dumb? Ugh. It was going to be a long, hungry day.

By the time lunch rolls around, Buck’s stomach feels like it’s going to consume him alive. He can’t handle the cafeteria or the smells of food; instead, he goes to the library and tries to distract himself. In the corner where the encyclopedias are, he sits on the floor, thumbing through the pages until he comes to the section about angels.

...

French is gripped by the agitation of residual high. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he didn’t need to do it, he shouldn’t do it. The problem is it’s habit now, but he can’t see that.

When he began this it was a calculated decision. It produced results he liked, so he continued. He won’t let himself see or admit that it is thin ice; every day that he continues to use carefully measured doses he risks falling beneath the surface and getting trapped there, choking on cold water as it fills his lungs. He risks losing himself, his sanity. Then again, what’s it matter? He never had that anyway.

On the way to practice he sees Buck in the hall with a few guys from choir. Something stirs in his chest, and his cheeks flush with the feeling of being caught. He doesn’t want Buck to see him like this, so he dips down another hallway and heads to the gym, fighting feelings of shame and self-hate.

By the time he’s in the locker room sneaking a hit he doesn’t need before a practice that will exhaust him he realizes he misses Buck. It’s like his own soul is impressed with the shape of the other’s. The absence hurts. He sends a text, knowing it’s no pressure since he’ll be on the field before Buck answers.

[Text to: Buck]  
Hey! I hope you’re having an awesome day.

...

Sitting on the library floor, engrossed in his reading, Buck felt his phone vibrate. When he took it out, he smiled, surprised. Then he remembered last night, and smiled again.

He didn’t really know how to answer the message. He was so embarrassed about skipping breakfast and forgetting his wallet, and he was so damn hungry. He wasn’t really ok. But the feeling would pass. He’d be fine.

Still, he couldn’t lie to French. So he just said nothing and slipped his phone back into his bag. With everything on French’s plate, he didn’t want to become another burden, another problem.

Sitting on the library floor, Buck tried to get back to his reading, but he was distracted. French had thought of him, and Buck couldn’t stop smiling. That was more than enough.

...

Buck would have been fine. That’s what he keeps telling himself, anyways. But his last period was English Lit and they were doing a Shakespeare intensive, and, for some reason, the teacher thought it would be great to show them footage from the Royal Shakespeare Company’s portrayal of King Lear. The blood on the screen looked totally fake, but that somehow made it worse. All he could think about was what it would feel like to be mutilated in that way.

One moment, Buck was watching Regan and Cornwall gouge out Gloucester’s eyes, and the next thing he knew, he was on the floor and people were laughing at him. He’d fainted and fallen out of his desk. And, to make matters worse, he hit his head on the way down and had a gash on his forehead.

After giving him some water and making sure he was alright, the teacher wrote him a pass and sent him to the nurse’s office to have the cut looked at.

Buck slipped out into the hallway, head hung in shame.

...

At a quarter after nine, French comes home to his mother passed out on the couch with the TV blaring. The smell of alcohol permeates the condo. Rage snakes its way up his spine and curls over his shoulders, slides down his arms to draw his hands into fists. He doesn’t notice this, or that he’s still grinding his teeth. It started earlier while he was high at work and never stopped. Why should it when there’s so much tension in his chest it starts to knock against his rib cage and into other bones?

The rage is cut clean through at the sound of Carlos and Adrien shrieking with laughter upstairs. Even if his brothers aren’t in bed yet– even if his mother is an incapable, depressive drunk who never should have had kids– at least they’re okay.

He tries to rouse her. She won’t wake. He shuts the television off and calls her name a few times. It reminds him of being a little kid, scared in the middle of the night and trying so hard to wake her up. How many nights did he sleep in her bed, terrified she was dying? That was before their father came back. Before he stayed a few years, gave her two more kids, and left again.

It’s ten o’clock by the time he’s gotten everyone in bed, including himself. He’s setting his alarm for tomorrow morning when he remembers he texted Buck before practice. Scrolling through his messages, he sees there’s no reply.

French taps out a worried message and hesitates to send it. Exhaustion has met him now, layered with the nightly doubt that takes over once the high is gone. Crashing sucks. It makes him sad and scared and small. Being alone to deal with it sucks worse, but he can’t share this with anyone else. He doesn’t even get it, why should they? Besides, he should be used to it by now. As social as he is, no one really knows him. He doesn’t let them.

Maybe he should let someone in.

[Text to: Buck]  
Hey, are you okay? 

...

It was a horrible day, and Buck only had himself to blame.

After the nurse bandaged up Buck’s cut…because a band aid was too small, he needed actual gauze and a bandage…she insisted on calling his parents to tell them that he fainted in class. He sat on the cot in the nurse’s office, feet dangling, drinking a juice box, and felt so stupid and small, like a little kid.

When his mom picked him up, she fussed over him. Ever since the shooting, she had this constant nerve about his safety, his well-being. That was a good thing, right? It was good for parents to care about their kids, even if it meant they forced him to stay home all the time, no matter how well he behaved.

All Buck wanted to do was go home, grab a sleeve of crackers, and lie down. His body was so weak, and he still hadn’t told anyone that the juice box was the first thing he’d eaten all day.

But without even saying a thing, his mom drove him to the ER. At least they picked up fast food along the way. Buck ate it slowly while they sat in a waiting room full of people who had the flu. They waited an hour before they saw the triage nurse, then another hour while people with more serious cases were admitted ahead of them. After finally seeing a doctor, doing a few tests, being told that he was completely fine, then getting discharged, another two and a half hours had passed, and the greasy meal from earlier was giving Buck a stomach ache.

At home, as soon as they walked in the front door, The Amazing Mr. Vu started berating him with questions, asking what had happened, how he could have fallen, telling him he overreacted, that a little blood was nothing to get upset over. Buck just kept agreeing with him. Ok Dad. Sorry Dad. I know. You’re right Dad.

Then there were questions for Buck’s mom about the hospital, how much it would cost, was it really necessary, why they didn’t call Mr. Vu first to get approval. Buck slipped out of the kitchen and trudged upstairs, leaving them arguing in the kitchen.

Finally alone, he curled up in the dark into a ball under the covers. He was in so much pain, but it wasn’t from his head. It was from his heart. He imagined a bucket of black paint pouring over his body, oozing over every stretch of skin and clothes. Drowning in thick dark feelings, he lay there aching, hating himself for being weak, hating himself for being a burden, for messing up, for requiring resources and hospital bills and food and space. Why did he have to take up so much space? Why couldn’t he just not exist?

His phone buzzed. He saw the message come through from French. “Are you ok?”

A voice inside his head told him not to reply, that he didn’t deserve French’s concern, that French was too good for him, that he should just not bother him with all of these fake problems. But the thought of ignoring the message, of pushing French away, it cut deep into Buck with a pain he couldn’t bear.

Hands shaking, he picked up the phone, and replied.

[ Text to: French ]  
No.

And then he wept.

...

The single word read in small, simple font shatters him. His immediate reflex is to fly up out of bed and drive straight to Buck’s house. That’s impractical, though. It could hurt Buck more than help him. The boy’s parents all but physically chained him to the house after the shooting, so French showing up late on a school night won’t go over well. The goal is to make Buck feel comfortable enough to tell him what happened so he can help, not appear in the night like some possessed warrior.

French considers asking what happened, waiting for a reply and typing back that everything will be okay. That he can help. But he doesn’t know that, which makes him anxious. For once he doesn’t have the right words, and despite the anxiety he’s exhausted; there’s a chance he could fall asleep during their conversation again. He could never do that to Buck, abandon him in sleep at a critical moment.

His final response is carefully weighed against the other options.

[Text to: Buck]  
I’m glad you told me. Just hang on, okay? Just get through tonight. Breathe through whatever’s going on and make it to morning.  
[…]  
If you’re not physically safe, call me or text back.  
[…]  
Otherwise, I’ll be at your house tomorrow at 7. You’ll ride to school with me, and we can talk about everything.  
[…]  
I’m with you.


	6. The Morning After

Freshly alert from snorting a bump in his bedroom earlier, French parks outside the Vu residence at exactly seven o'clock. He gets out of the car, considers walking to the door to ring the bell. What if Buck’s parents are still asleep? His own mother sleeps through morning. He would hate to be impolite.

After deliberating, he chooses to remain by his car, prepared to give Buck a warm greeting as soon as he sees the front door open.

[Text to: Buck]  
Good morning! I hope you’re feeling better.  
[…]  
By the way, I’m outside!

...

After a minute, Buck slips out of the front door and walks briskly to French.

French. Alfonso Sosa. Here. Leaning against his car. It’s the best thing in the world to be walking towards.

Buck is overcome with happiness at the sight of him, and bursts out in a huge smile and partial laugh.

"Hey, sorry I’m late."

His cheeks are flushed, his breath slightly short from rushing. And his carefully-put-together ensemble is a little mussed…the bandage on his forehead is peeking out ever-so-slightly from his beanie.  
...

The moment he hears the door open French stands up a little straighter. He’d imagined himself rushing to Buck, but in actuality finds himself frozen in the light of such a radiant boy.

Radiant, yet somehow troubled. There’s the shadowy hint of sleepless circles under his puffy hooded eyes. Has Buck been crying? What happened yesterday that made him not okay? There’s the… is that a bandage? Beneath his knit cap?

Overcome with curiosity, heart racing so fast his mouth cannot make words, he lifts his hand and gently pushes back the beanie. It’s a bandage. Buck got hurt.

A thousand scenarios play through his racing mind. Transphobes at school, a fight with Mr. Vu, an accident French wasn’t there to stop. Whatever it was, that’s the part that makes his gut twist up, his jaw get tight. Buck got hurt and he wasn’t there.

French drops his hand from Buck’s face to his shoulder and pulls him in hard. He envelopes the boy in two strong arms and squeezes, rests his cheek against the soft hat. His heart pounds wildly, too loud for him to feel the other boy’s.

When he finally pulls away he spits out the words he’s been holding in since last night.

"What happened?"

...

Just the sight of French made him weak in the knees, but when that gorgeous, confident boy reached up and pushed back Buck’s hat, when his fingers grazed Buck’s scalp and he could feel the pressure of French’s thumb against his temple, every nerve in Buck’s body felt on fire.

He wasn’t used to being touched.

When French pulled him close, wrapped his arms around him, his first reflex would have been to push back, to run away, to hide. But the shock of the moment fried his circuit board, and–before he could react–he was in French’s arms. He was too shocked to even hug back. He just stood there, thawing into the moment.

He was in French’s arms, and he could feel the pressure of French’s cheek against the top of his head, and French was squeezing him. It hurt so much. Why did it hurt so much?

It wasn’t the pain of the hug. It was something happening inside Buck’s heart. Buck walked through life so numb to his own pain, fighting his feelings, burying them inside of him. It wasn’t that French was hurting him. French was opening him up, helping him feel safe enough to actually feel, and there was a world of pain waiting under the surface that Buck didn’t know how to deal with.

Being with French made Buck feel safe enough to not feel ok.

When he released him, when the hug was over, it felt too soon. French wanted to know what happened. Of course. Ashamed at the truth, Buck buried his fists in his pockets and looked at the ground, unable to face eyes of disappointment.

"It’s so dumb. I fainted in class. There was… (he’s visibly queasy saying the next word) blood… on the TV. Like, totally fake blood. And I just wigged out and fainted."

He still won’t look French in the eye. He starts talking really fast and there’s no indication that he’s going to stop.

"It was my own fault. I forgot to eat and when I don’t eat I get lightheaded. I should have eaten. If I’d remembered to do that, I would have been ok. I mean, it was totally fake. And it was one of those BBC shows, so the set wasn’t even realistic. It was just super gorey and dumb and I totally overreacted and…"

...

Of all the scenes French's lucid mind conjured in the short time he’d stood there, eyes worriedly searching Buck’s narrow frame, he’d never imagined the hurt was self-inflicted.

It startles him, shakes his core. There is so much he doesn’t know. The boy is scared of blood? Is that why he tried to run when Steve’s dog attacked OA? Why, during the most gruesome parts of her story, Buck would slide closer to him and burrow deeper in the blanket?

An aversion to blood is unexpected but understandable. Forgetting to eat? Does it happen often? Is it part of why Buck is so small? Precious like porcelain at the risk of breaking himself, does it hurt? Does he enjoy it? Feel he deserves it?

Does it hurt?

Every muscle in his body is tense, rigid, his nerves on fire with the gravity of this. He strains himself in an effort not to show how affected he is, while Buck is spilling words like viscera spilling from a slit stomach, landing unasked for with a nauseating noise on clean-scrubbed shoes. It goes on and on, sounds his addled mind cannot comprehend. Sounds that compete with those echoing off his skull. You don’t know him! You can’t protect him! He is above you! He is beyond you, don’t try. Don’t feel. Don’t touch him. Don’t touch him. Don’t touch him. Don’t touch him. Don’t…

Through curtains of noise he hears his own voice, trembling sharp like thin ice.

"I don’t understand, how did you forget to eat? It wasn’t like you skipped a meal, Buck, you were hungry enough to pass out during class. You hit your head. You hurt yourself. What were you thinking?"

...

The tone of French’s voice shocks him. It’s anger. French is yelling at him. Not loudly, but still yelling at him.

He was used to being yelled at. He knew anger, was astutely familiar with rage, knew how to submit, bow his head, placate with agreeable words, mask his pain and fear.

Buck’s worst fears seem to be coming true. He opened up, and bore his messy heart, and then it felt like his father was right there, in French’s shoes, berating him.

But after the shock of French’s outburst wore off, he realized: there was something different in French’s words, something he wasn’t used to. French wasn’t angry for himself. He wasn’t angry about how this affected himself or made him look or inconvenienced him. French was angry on Buck’s behalf.

And, with that, what was left of Buck’s resolve melted away.

Buck dove forward, in French, sliding his arms around French’s torso, clinging in the tightest of hugs and buried his face against French’s strong chest.

"It was an accident. I’m so sorry."

...

He doesn’t return the hug, deserted in the wake of Buck’s apology. Why should he be sorry? French isn’t upset with him, he’s scared. He doesn’t understand how someone could force their body through the motions without sustenance until their body simply gave up. He doesn’t understand Buck’s apology.

But they’ve been here before. The night Buck ran up to him in the parking lot at the supermarket. Buck asked him a question and French responded with a rash, defensive snap, so unlike the mild mannered self he presented to the world. The slightest hint that someone might see the truth about his life set him on edge, and though it had nothing to do with the boy, Buck’s immediate response was to apologize.

The same thing is happening now. Buck thinks he messed by upsetting French. That’s not it, that could never be it. How stupid could French be, unraveling without consideration of how Buck would feel?

His tense arms fold around Buck’s back once more, and after a solid squeeze he lets go. His voice is soft, still trembling.

"Buck, don’t you feel it? When you forget to eat, doesn’t it hurt? How often does it happen?"

Buck considers the question earnestly and shrugs his shoulders.

"I don’t know. I mean, yeah, it hurt. But it comes and goes. I don’t ever plan it. It’s just an accident. I didn’t have time for breakfast, and I forgot my wallet at home, so I just…" Buck shrugged his shoulders like two clipped little wings. "I know I should be more prepared. I’ve never fainted before like this. It was just really bad timing. I mean, of all the days to skip breakfast, I just happen to also forget my wallet AND my last period was showing…that movie. I just…can’t…with blood…"

Buck shudders. Even just thinking about the movie scene makes him feel a little lightheaded. He hates it. He hates this part of himself. Hospitals don’t scare him, but at the thought of a knife piercing his flesh, he involuntarily starts to feel dizzy.

...

French stills himself, listens. He believes Buck that it’s accidental, sees the insecurity on his face. French doesn’t want to add to that. He also knows, from the ticking of his internal clock, that they’ll be late for homeroom if they don’t leave now. And French is never late.

He squeezes Buck’s shoulder.

"It’s alright that you’re put off by blood. A lot of people are. And I’m glad you explained it to me, because it’s not something I could ever imagine. If it ever happens again text me. I can help. I’d like to."

He motions to the car and starts to make his way to the driver’s side door.

"Come on, we’ve gotta go. We can talk more on the way. And I’ve got an aux cord, so you can put on whatever music you like."


End file.
